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Colours!What is it to be a man?
We, as a species, are flawed. Insane, impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours. Blue, red, green, brown, yellow, orange, purple.
We exist through each other. The colours painted through life.
They are flawed. Impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Politics; the pallet with which we forever stain the canvas of life. We instinctively, biologically, lie, corrupt and cheat to survive.
But we are flawed. Brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Yet why do we help? Profit, maybe; personal gain through relationships. But we are capable of emotion. Thought. Memory. There is no reason for us to be as we are.
Because we are flawed. And we are beautiful in our colours! We are impossible and we are brilliant in our colours. Blue, red, green, yellow, orange, purple.
SanityThe room was dark, very dark. It was one of those few places that exuded fear; even men with the cleanest conscious would instinctively draw their coats about them and force sinister thoughts as to what impossible shames lurked in the deep obscurity far from their minds. This small chamber had long-since been shut off from the world, forsaken, as a result, it seemed to contain nothing other than darkness; no memories of past joy, not a single thought had managed to penetrate the blinding dark. While being singularly intangible, there was an unquestionable physicality to the darkness, as if yet undecided on how to manifest itself. If one was so inclined, a separate darkness may be perceived within the thick gloom, one that was significantly and yet only fractionally, different to its counterparts.
This belonged to The Man. So long had he spent in penitent repose, that he had learned to drown out the incessant cries from outside by focussing on his surroundings; or lack thereof. By shro
he cried because no one cried for himI found Death crying in the alleyway underneath my apartment window. He crouched, huddled, shaking and whimpering out his little mouse of a cry that was muffled by the rumbling cacophony of city night life. He didn't make himself seen, and like the child he was, huddled down and hid his face with his mitten-covered hands.
Death made eye contact with me as I watched him from the fire escape. He stared with bright blue eyes perfectly framed with long eye lashes. The chill bit and reddened his nose and cheeks, and his tears left frozen paths of black ice against his face. I didn't mean to, it was an accident, he pleaded with me.
I watched him as he shamefully picked up his victim, a tiny little kitten that was half frozen and curled tightly into itself. He tried to stroke it back to life, begging and pressing the small animal into his plush winter coat.
I'm sorry, he lisped, wiping snot onto his sleeve as he cradled the corpse like a beloved baby doll. I followed his t
Tissue, muscle, bone and blood.Tissue, muscle, bone and blood. Together they create a frame, holding together a central purpose. Without these frames, there is nothing to display, yet without having anything to display, frames become a simple structure, without purpose; tissue, muscle, bone and blood. There are those who drape themselves in stark, and claim a dull proclamation; we feel nothing more than a complex matter of equation, we are built on nothing more than architectural cells, and our world moves despite how still our hearts may stand. Yet we are still hungry- we are still starved of knowledge. There is more of what we desire, then more of what can be explained.
They say that without the comfort of others, we are incapable of survival- we crave to be spoon fed with the affections of another. Yet there are those whose affections lie deep within the soil, whose affections cannot, or will not, be blossomed by the rays of the sun. They claim that affections remain false, that the sun can only do so much as bur
PostbellumIn the half-darkness of the orange-lit night, I can see myself in eyes that flutter between my nose and fidgeting hands. Somehow in those glimmering orbs the reflection is less warped than the one I hold within. Heavy silence leaks from two silent lips, but in collision the reaction creates warmth seeping back in. Discarded tissues litter the worn porch-boards from a smashed box smelling of lint and mud. I watch stages of expressions flit before the mouth opens once more –
“It’s good to have this. Someone who–” But they already know, I can tell by the intent eyes that somehow hold the both of us together. I can see the skin still recovering on the knuckles that were white and tense, still glistening with salty wetness. A wry almost-smile curves a matching damp cheek, a cheek on which I can almost see the unnatural colors like stains in my own mirror. I look into those eyes, determined this time to not to let this pass as countless had before
Contrary to popular belief, this Christmas was not a white one. Rather, the air felt heavy with the smoke from the factories mixing in with the fog rolling in from the Thames which stank with the rotting detritus from the many warehouses and factories that used the river as a dumping ground for the byproducts of their particular industries. Coaches, Brewery carts, and Hansom cabs clattered their way up and down the cobbled streets of London amid the haze of the pea soup fog. Gas lamps flickered along the avenues, alleys, and streets guiding the way for the various pedestrians who moved like shadows through the night.
This was the city of shadows, and amid the city which hid both pleasure and vice another world dwelled. It reflected that of the world above. Small feet dashed to and fro dodging cart wheels and horse's hooves. They moved among the manicured gardens, through dank sewers, along rooftops, through the homes of the
The Souls at Night"You wanna know something?" she whispered as dew crunched grass settled between my jeans.
"I like to think that people's souls are the stars."
"Yeah, I mean just think about it, there are billions of twinkling little lights up there, and when you clear your head of yourself and your trivial matters, you can see everyone."
"So?" I questioned, gazing into her sickle sweet freckles coated on her barely there skin.
"You just become overwhelmed by the sheer mass of souls that exist so close, and yet you're so distant from them...." her voice faded out and I could see the fog sheen that covered her storm clouds ridden at sea eyes when she thought of-
"Why would they be stars?" I saw her eyes focus back on the backdrop of souls and a small smile grace her bubblegum cherry lips.
"Constellations." She responded simply. I rolled over onto my elbow, crushing fragile grass dreams in the process. Without turning she continued.
"You see there are those that make up a group, you know a c
Silent Screams of Non-ExistenceCan I please get some help with this? No? Oh… Okay. Fine…
… Actually, not fine.
Why won’t anyone help me with what I’m going through?
Can’t you see that I’m in pain? Can’t you see me at all?
Am I still here?
Am I even alive? It doesn’t feel like it. But, then, it does; when she sees me, hears me. It makes me feel alive when we talk and play. That doesn’t stop people from staring at her weirdly when we do, though. It doesn’t stop her mother from giving her sympathetic, almost pitying, looks when we walk into the kitchen. Always at her, and it hurts me when I see it.
----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----
What do you mean? Of course I’
Conscience InputSomewhere within the last few hours, she'd turned into a jitterbug. Sitting on the edge of a panic attack and not knowing how to handle it, she did her level best to throw herself into something that would calm her nerves. But every time she attempted to really get into the rewriting of recipes into a spiral bound book, she found only more setbacks that stopped her from really getting stuck in the work.
“That does it!” she swore quietly, yet the volume of the words did nothing to hide the menace in her tone. She picked up the cold chili she'd set down on her desk a few hours ago and promptly ignored. Digging into it like she hadn’t eaten in days. While the time since she'd last consumed food had been more like a few hours, it still felt like forever ago. She was surprised to find herself hungry, usually she did her level best to forget that she needed to eat, much to her irritation when her body finally mentally put it's foot down. She shovelled food into her mouth as
What, What Are You?What is snow? The epiphany of the existence of all purities of substance; a cloud in it's own icy sepulcher. Let the child play; let the fawn frolic; but what is it but death's slow and silent embrace? To what do we owe the snow but confined and tastefully bliss finger of death's embracing hand, and to the extent that we do not seem to care of it's malefocence? To whom do we owe the credit to? The grace of god's heavenly devices, to the beautiful and independence substance scientifically and metaphorically representing significant individuality? Or the harsh reality of the devil and a cruel, waiting death. Hoping, wishing, waiting for us to call "five more minutes" as we lay in this deadly blanket. What, what is snow but death's hiding adder in the grass? What, what is snow?
What is the sky? Does it lay like a blanket to cover the stars, keeping the world in an infinite greenhouse of human oxides? And should the sky run away, ailing from our mistreatment and negligence, would our hopes
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More